The Memory of Taste
by Frodo Baggins of Bag End
Summary: A series of vignettes from Frodo's memories, all centered around or prompted by the memory of food and drink. Ranges from early years through post-War of the Ring, though in no particular order. No slash, sex, or profanity.
1. Home

Series Title: The Memory of Taste 

Vignette Title: Prologue 

Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd) 

E-mail: frodoatbagend@yahoo.com 

Characters: Frodo, Celebrian. Later to include Elrond, Gandalf, Bilbo, various others 

Rating: G to PG-13 (Prologue: G to PG) 

Summary: A series of vignettes from Frodo's memories, all centered around or prompted by the memory of food and drink. Ranges from early years through post-War of the Ring, though in no particular order. 

Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming. 

Story Notes: Pure fluff (sometimes angst-filled, sometimes not) written for its own sake. It's not intended to have a grand plot; it's not intended to be impressive, serious fanfic. Just a little set written episodically (read: as the mood strikes me) for the fun of it and nothing more. Lots of Frodo h/c in these, though, so if you like that, you'll enjoy this. Lots of little details, so if you like those, you may be fond of this. . .especially if you like food detail! If you don't. . .my apologies; to each her (or his) own taste. :) I make absolutely no claims whatsoever that this is a canonically thematic portrayal of the West, though I have attempted to follow some remote semblance, at least, of what we know in that there was never a guarantee of *how* Frodo's healing would come, if it did, but that he might seek it there. . .as well as in some other matters, such as some of the book's characters actually being there at this time. Beyond those little points, I'm not even attempting to create a canonical story. This is purely for pleasure. 

THE MEMORY OF TASTE 

PROLOGUE 

"There now. . .ssssshhh, Little One. . . ." 

Frodo yawned as he felt Celebrian's arms around him, gathering him up gently. Snuggling gratefully against her warmth, he made no effort as yet to open his eyes: he was still sleepy, and he knew there would be no urgency. Already he had come to love the morning routine. . .Lady Celebrian would come gather him from his bed, wrapping him in a warmed quilt and carrying him to a rocking-chair near the hearth, where she would rock him in her arms like a child, allowing him to sleep as long as he wished. His bedding would be changed by other elves, and when he finally woke enough to open his eyes, Celebrian would give him sips of something warm to drink, nursing him quietly while his breakfast was brought: toast and fresh fruit, porridge, milk and fruit juices, various favourites. . .not that he felt very much like eating yet, most days. Assistants would fill a bath while Celebrian fed him, and after the meal, she would bathe him, either in a tub or cradled in her arms, using comfortable water scented with herbs and oils. The other healers would not come until mid-morning, after those tasks were completed, and even then they were quiet and careful with him. Usually Celebrian would return him to his bed first, tucking him in cosily with freshly warmed blankets and fluffed pillows. 

Afternoons were pleasant as well: Bilbo came every day, and they took afternoon tea together. Though still frail with age, he had changed, and for the better. Frodo had long ago abandoned hope that Bilbo would ever remember what had transpired regarding the true end of the Ring, but the healing virtue found in the West was such that much of the confusion clouding his mind had swiftly cleared, and there had been a day when the healers brought him to Frodo, urging gently that it was time for the story to be told again. . .so Frodo began with the night of Bilbo's departure from the Shire, continuing until the day they boarded the ship at the Grey Havens together. And this time, to Frodo's astonishment, Bilbo understood. 

*Truly* understood. 

He listened, nodding peppered with small exclamations of shock or sympathy. . .and held his nephew's hands, rubbing them tenderly. For the first time, Frodo wept in the explanations, and Bilbo simply held him, embracing him and rubbing his back as he had when Drogo and Primula drowned more than forty years earlier. It had been an exhausting day, but one Frodo would not have traded for all the world thrice over. 

Bilbo had a hobbit-hole, of course. . .but Frodo had fallen ill within hours of boarding ship, and had been given directly into the care of the healers. They seemed, however, to have anticipated this: his room had a great many things designed in round or circular shapes, avoiding the angularities common in elven architecture. Even the doorway was arched, and the windows were great circles of glass, with fine curtains and soft window- seats for reading or rest, though as yet he had been too ill to be out of bed, save carried in someone's arms, as he was with Celebrian. He wondered how they had known, but felt pleased that someone had considered this. They assured him that he, too, had a place. . .a little hole beside Bilbo's. . .though sometimes he feared that these were only words to calm him, to keep him from abandoning hope of recovery, for he had been so sick with pain and chill that often he believed death could not be far away. 

And yet they kept up efforts that seemed to indicate otherwise. . .coaxing repeatedly for him to take regular meals and snacks, administering medicines to help sustain his strength, exercising his limbs gently with careful motions designed to stretch muscles without hurting him. . . . 

Snuggling cosily in the warm nest of quilt and arms, he opened his eyes at last, blinking in the low firelight. Celebrian smiled reassuringly at him, bringing one slender hand up to brush back his curls. 

"Good morning, Little One." 

He opened his lips a little as she touched the feeding-cup to them: warm milk, sweetened with honey and a dash of cinnamon. Sipping slowly, he managed a faint smile. 

Primula. 

A flash of dark chestnut locks, heavy and full over bright, laughing eyes. 

The same sweet taste of warm milk with honey, cinnamon dusted atop it, then stirred in. 

_"Go to sleep now, poppet. Mamma's here."_

His breath caught. Celebrian stroked his hair gently, bending over him so that her silver hair fell in a curtain about his face, shielding him. 

"What is it?" 

"My. . ." He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, at once startled, saddened, and elated. "My mother. . .she. . .used to make something like this for me. I. . .had forgotten." 

She cradled him close, offering another small sip, rubbing his shoulder and arm soothingly. "Memory is tied to not only the mind, but all the senses. . .taste and smell among the strongest. This may be more true for hobbits, perhaps, than even for elves or for men, for whom those senses can evoke powerful memories. And so many of yours before the quest must relate to food and drink. . .simple comforts, but not unimportant ones. Far from it." 

He swallowed cautiously, taking a little more of the warm drink. "It was what kept Sam so. . .grounded, I think. . .and one of the things that helped for so long. But. . .but then I. . .it seemed those memories were all burned away, leaving nothing between me and the Wheel of Fire. . . ." 

"And so it was. There are many ways one may find healing, Frodo. . .sometimes it comes not in potions or salves, but in the simplest of things." She touched the cup to his lips once more. 

"Drink, Little One. You are safe." 

~to be continued~ 


	2. A Bit Of Cheer

Series Title: The Memory of Taste  
  
Vignette Title: Prologue  
  
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)  
  
E-mail: frodoatbagend@yahoo.com  
  
Characters: Frodo, Celebrian. Later to include Elrond, Gandalf, Bilbo, various others.  
  
Rating: G to PG-13 (Prologue: G to PG)  
  
Summary: A series of vignettes from Frodo's memories, all centered around or prompted by the memory of food and drink. Ranges from early years through post-War of the Ring, though in no particular order.  
  
Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming.  
  
Story Notes: Pure fluff (sometimes angst-filled, sometimes not) written for its own sake. It's not intended to have a grand plot; it's not intended to be impressive, serious fanfic. Just a little set written episodically (read: as the mood strikes me) for the fun of it and nothing more. Lots of Frodo h/c in these, though, so if you like that, you'll enjoy this. Lots of little details, so if you like those, you may be fond of this. . .especially if you like food detail! If you don't. . .my apologies; to each her (or his) own taste. :) I make absolutely no claims whatsoever that this is a canonically thematic portrayal of the West, though I have attempted to follow some remote semblance, at least, of what we know in that there was never a guarantee of *how* Frodo's healing would come, if it did, but that he might seek it there. . .as well as in some other matters, such as some of the book's characters actually being there at this time. Beyond those little points, I'm not even attempting to create a canonical story. This is purely for pleasure. For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact frodoatbagend@yahoo.com.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom.  
  
for baranduin  
  
A Bit of Cheer  
  
He could hardly be certain what time it was when he felt Celebrian's arms gathering him up gently, though he felt too comfortable even to open his eyes. As usual, he felt only the slightest hint of motion as she bore him to the rocking-chair, then the easy back-and-forth as she began to rock him.  
  
But there was something else. . .something less familiar. . .pleasant, though still somehow new to him.  
  
Slowly he opened his eyes, blinking a little, and she smiled. The scent did not disappear: it could not have been part of some half-dream.  
  
A few movements, and she touched a spoon to his lips, brushing them gently with the polished wooden surface. . .something he liked very much; he had found that everything tasted bitterly of metal during those final months in the Shire, and too often even fine silver utensils called to mind the taste. Here there seemed to be polished wooden ones, smoothed with a degree of care any hobbit carver would admire. Opening his mouth willingly, he tasted, taking in the tidbit.  
  
Cherries.  
  
That was it.  
  
At once he smiled, nodding, and she offered a little more. Cherry bread- pudding, still deliciously warm and sweet.  
  
Where had he. . . .  
  
Faramir.  
  
Yes.  
  
*********  
  
Minas Tirith was a beautiful city, lovely beyond words: to his surprise, Frodo found that he had no desire to leave, save a quiet longing to see Bilbo again, and memories of the Shire which tugged at his heart now and again. Yet for now, there seemed to be time enough: not many days had passed since Aragorn's crowning, and spring was only beginning to flower into summer.  
  
But he was not happy. Not now.  
  
It had started well enough, to be certain. . .but he swiftly found that his recovery had not been as certain as they had hoped. The day after King Elessar's coronation, Frodo had fallen ill while trying to dress: he felt faint, and was forced to lie back down. He had promptly been ordered back to bed rest by a reluctant Aragorn, following consultation with the Warden of the Houses of Healing.  
  
But most frustrating had been the food.  
  
They had very specific ideas about when and what he should have to eat, and though Aragorn expressed his wish that the Ringbearer deserved his choice in all matters, not least this, he also conceded that the Warden was right: feasting-schedules and dishes were not, perhaps, the best of choices for a stomach already sensitive and long deprived of ordinary dishes. A light diet was prescribed for him, and Sam followed it to the letter, despite mutterings beneath his breath that it "seemed like having to fair starve poor Mr. Frodo, and no mistake!" - breakfast of poached egg on toast with cambric tea, elevenses of milk-punch, luncheon of cream soup and crackers with a scant glassful of port-wine, then hot beef or chicken broth for tea, and toast with wine jelly and cambric tea for his supper.  
  
Despite his hesitation at some of the strange dishes he had thus far seen, Frodo could hardly help disliking this.  
  
It was out of no malice, that much he felt certain: the Warden came to see him thrice daily, and was very gentle, enquiring softly about Frodo's sleep, whether he had pain, what he might like to make him more comfortable. At first, Frodo had had no complaint with the diet. . .any food seemed a feast after weeks of lembas, and before that dried fruit and dried meats with cheese and bread. To be presented with perfect circles of delicately toasted white bread, with a bit of sweet butter or strawberry jam to spread upon them. . .to be offered creamy soups made with chicken and mushrooms or carrots or sweet potatoes. . .to have plenty to drink, not least all the cool, clear water he could possibly wish. . .all these seemed marvels after the nightmares still seared into his memory. But anything becomes tiresome after too long, whether it is lembas or toast, and Frodo found himself longing for something *different* to taste. . .some fruit, tart or sweet. . .or something a bit more like dessert than the custard which was all the Warden allowed him thus far, fearing that anything more would upset the Ringbearer's stomach.  
  
Malice or not, Frodo was annoyed.  
  
Consequently, he was not particularly responsive when there came Pippin's familiar knock one afternoon, on his fifth day in bed and limited to the tiny servings of light foods.  
  
"Frodo? Your tea is ready - Sam sent me to bring it in - "  
  
"I doubt I can stomach another cup of milk-punch, Pip. Take it away. Please."  
  
"I - I don't think I *can* - "  
  
Frodo rolled over, turning irritably in bed and curling into a ball, pulling the covers over his head. "Then it shall have to stay there, because I'm not drinking it."  
  
"Shall it?"  
  
The voice that uttered this response was entirely different, and Frodo, startled, promptly pushed the covers back to look up at the speaker, who had entered the room and now stood over his bed.  
  
Faramir.  
  
He was dressed not in his finest attire, as Frodo had seen him when attending Aragorn, but in simple Ranger garb of greeen and brown, not unlike that worn at their first meeting. In his hands he carried a small box, which he held as he seated himself in a chair by the bed, turning only to nod to Pippin, who remained at the door.  
  
"Now. . .I understand that you are unwell. . .and unhappy."  
  
Frodo felt his face flush. "I am glad to be alive at all."  
  
"But you still suffer, and the joy of being alive does not make your hurts less." Faramir opened the little box, turning it so that the lid lifted toward Frodo, blocking his view. "And not least of the small indignities which continue, I believe, are the matters of food and drink?"  
  
"Well. . .no, and. . .and yes. . . ." Frodo hesitated, struggling to explain. "I mean, I am given them, and it is the best, but. . .mostly the Warden allows only plain foods, and I. . .sometimes I wish for something with a. . .a bit more *taste* to it. . . . I wonder what they are serving at the feasts; I know that Aragorn spoke of postponing them, but. . .I could hardly ask that. . . ."  
  
Faramir smiled, his features kindly as he turned the box. "Perhaps something like this?"  
  
Promptly Frodo blinked. Neatly arranged in the box was a small dessert-dish of cherry bread-pudding.  
  
"I thought you might enjoy this. King Elessar gave his blessing," here the Ranger winked, "and Eowyn asked the Warden whether it might not be best to indulge a patient's longings at times."  
  
Taking a spoon from the bedside table, he stirred the mixture, then offered a quarter-spoonful to the Ringbearer. At once Frodo closed his lips over the spoon.  
  
Rapture.  
  
Closing his eyes, he swirled his tongue against the spoon, ensuring that every bit of cherry-buttery breadcrumb-wine mixture was lapped off and consumed. Secretly he was glad that Faramir had taken the initiative to feed him: utensils were still awkward with his hand continuing to heal, and it was a relief to simply enjoy the treat.  
  
"It's perfect."  
  
"Good. I had guessed as much." Faramir withdrew the spoon, refilled it, and returned it to the tiny waiting mouth. "I remember well what it is like to recover from a fever, and I thought that such a dish might remind you of home without overtaxing your strength."  
  
"Thank you. It. . .the cherries are a little different, and. . .it tastes as if there's a bit more wine and a bit less butter and bread, perhaps. . .quite different from home. But I like that."  
  
"Then we shall see if I cannot slip some other treat from the halls for you soon."  
  
Frodo laughed, continuing to eat, allowing Faramir to intersperse the spoonfuls of dessert with sips of cool water from the pitcher and tumbler kept at his bedside. "I would be quite in your debt if you did."  
  
"I hardly think that could be the case, Frodo." As the Ringbearer finished the last bite, Faramir set spoon, dish, and box aside, his grey eyes gentle and full of concern. "Now. . .if I remember correctly, the easiest way to get a hobbit to sleep is on a full stomach."  
  
"Generally, yes." Frodo managed a smile.  
  
"Then turn. . .onto your stomach, now, slowly. . . ." Faramir assisted him, the large, strong hands folding back blankets to Frodo's waist. Gingerly he began rubbing the small shoulders, working with precise care. "Try to sleep if you can. . .I am not needed back for some time, and when I go, I shall speak to the Warden about what we can do to improve your mealtimes."  
  
Frodo tried to nod, but it was difficult in that position. . .and he felt too comfortable to move. Faramir's hands moved from shoulders on down his back, working out the aches and stiffiness so ordinary for him these days.  
  
Within moments, he felt himself drifting into a quiet slumber. . .one long, and free of nightmares.  
  
~the end~ 


	3. Silk & Velvet

Series Title: The Memory of Taste  
  
Vignette Title: Silk & Velvet  
  
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)  
  
E-mail: frodoatbagend@yahoo.com  
  
Characters: Frodo, Celebrian, Elrond. Rating: G to PG-13 (This chapter PG to PG-13)  
  
Summary: A series of vignettes from Frodo's memories, all centered around or prompted by the memory of food and drink. Ranges from early years through post-War of the Ring, though in no particular order.  
  
Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming.  
  
Story Notes: Pure fluff (sometimes angst-filled, sometimes not) written for its own sake. It's not intended to have a grand plot; it's not intended to be impressive, serious fanfic. Just a little set written episodically (read: as the mood strikes me) for the fun of it and nothing more. Lots of Frodo h/c in these, though, so if you like that, you'll enjoy this. Lots of little details, so if you like those, you may be fond of this. . .especially if you like food detail! If you don't. . .my apologies; to each her (or his) own taste. :) I make absolutely no claims whatsoever that this is a canonically thematic portrayal of the West, though I have attempted to follow some remote semblance, at least, of what we know in that there was never a guarantee of *how* Frodo's healing would come, if it did, but that he might seek it there. . .as well as in some other matters, such as some of the book's characters actually being there at this time. Beyond those little points, I'm not even attempting to create a canonical story. This is purely for pleasure. ***As a special note, I do think RPing with someone in a particular role often can influence one's writing; consequently, I could not present my work without acknowledging and applauding Elwen's interpretation of Elrond, which has, in my eyes, become one of the most pervasive influences in Frodo hurt/comfort fanfiction. Thank you, Elwen! :) ***  
  
For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact frodoatbagend@yahoo.com.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. No slash is intended or implied in this story.  
  
for elwen  
  
Silk and Velvet  
  
Could a smell actually have texture?  
  
Frodo was accustomed to the mild scent of the light cream soups usually provided for his lunch. . .there were never overpowering smells, only slight ones, with the occasional delicately aromatic broth offered for variety or when he was not up to anything so much as the creamed variety, but still wanted something more than herb tea with honey, less than applesauce or toast or egg.  
  
But this one was different. It reminded him of nothing so much as. . .as a *feeling* rather than a particular place or time. . . .  
  
The realisation settled around him with sudden comfort, and he wept with relief, tears beginning to flow where he thought there were none. Even before he opened them, he knew what the dish held, and at once he opened his mouth to admit the spoon.  
  
*********  
  
He had come directly back to his room rather than following the others to the dining-hall. . .not that he had admitted it to them, of course, offering Sam and Bilbo the absolute assurance that he wished to look for Gloin in the library, hoping that they could continue their conversation from the feast. Once around the corner, he had nearly tripped over his own feet in an effort to reach his room in time, narrowly reaching his own chamber and shutting the door in time. A covered chamber-vessel had been left beneath his bed, and he sank to the floor, pulling it into his lap, leaning back against the side of the bed.  
  
Please no, no, no, no, no. . . .  
  
But it was no use wishing: half a moment longer and he was violently ill, vomiting up what little refreshment he had taken that day.  
  
I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.  
  
His stomach twisted and lurched again, evoking a fresh bout of retching. Why? And how? He had not even been able to cast it into the fireplace at Bag End: how, by all the Shire, did he think he would cast it into this Fire, to which his hearth at what was his home seemed no more than a flickering candle? Would his companions, whomever they were to be, have to wrest it from him by force, and break his mind, body, or both in the undoing of this evil? Or must he cast himself in with it, hope that he had the wherewithal to press himself to the edge?  
  
Another wave of nausea rushed over him with this thought. He felt stiflingly hot, though he shivered, his shirt clinging to his body. The repeated motion of muscles made his shoulder ache: it felt better than it had, but that said little, and the pain brought tears to his eyes.  
  
The soft click of the door caused him to start. Even before he had time to fully look up, someone knelt beside him, sliding a gentle, though firm, hand beneath his brow, supporting his head. An arm encircled his shoulders, bringing that hand to rest upon his tummy, beginning to massage with the lightest of touches.  
  
And it eased.  
  
Slowly the nausea seemed to abate a little, and the retching fits grew further apart.  
  
The gentle touch withdrew at last, supportive arms easing beneath his knees and back, then lifting him slowly. . .though smoothly, with none of the awkward hesitation it had taken for Bilbo to lift him when he had been a tweenager too ill with pneumonia to get up, and had had to be put into cooling baths. Frodo found himself resting against soft material. . .clothing of silk, with an overmantle of velvet. . . . Slowly, attempting to avoid another flood of nausea, he looked up.  
  
Elrond.  
  
It was Lord Elrond, his expression grave, but kind and concerned. Easing Frodo onto the bed, he reached for a basin still at hand on the bedside- table: the bedroom was still fitted with many of the accoutrements required in serious illness. ("Surely you understand, Mr. Frodo!" Sam had insisted. "You only just got up yesterday, after all, and before that - well, we thought till morning you were dying, sure as Shiretalk, even after they dug out that bit o'blade.") Settling this on the bed quite close to the hobbit, he disappeared from view for some minutes: though Frodo could hear soft hints of movement and cupboards and water, he dared not attempt to follow any motion with his eyes, closing them again instead to still any possible sickness.  
  
A comfortably cool cloth, moist and soothing, touched his brow. Opening his eyes, he found himself gazing up at Elrond, who was carefully bathing his face and neck with the damp bathing-cloth. At once Frodo felt colour rise to his face.  
  
"Forgive me, I - "  
  
"Sshhh." Elrond hushed him patiently, setting the cloth aside. "Glorfindel told me that he had seen you turning away from the dining-hall, and that you looked quite pale."  
  
"I'm fine. I simply. . .got a bit overheated."  
  
The excuse seemed to have little, if any effect on Elrond, who smiled gently, shaking his head. "I very much doubt that, Frodo. . .though you have more than enough cause. There are warriors who would be more shaken than you by what has transpired today, and you are still not fully recovered from your wound. Have you taken anything at all today?"  
  
"Some fruit and bread, and a little tea, when I rose. . .nothing since." Even this thought made Frodo shudder.  
  
"It is always worse being sick on a stomach little filled." Gently Elrond began to unfasten the miniature buttons closing Frodo's green waistcoat and finely fitted shirt. "I think it would be best if we put you to bed and allowed you the rest that you have thus far been denied: I am sorry, but some matters have been too pressing to wait. Nonetheless, those are now addressed."  
  
"Thank you. . . ." Frodo lay quietly, feeling too weak to move: it was a considerable relief to be tended, to have only to lie still while Elrond undressed him, unbuttoning everything, then sliding off the trousers and lifting him only once to remove shirt and waistcoat. Again there was the feeling of comfortably cool water: Elrond worked without forcing unnecessary movement, sponging him down, relieving some of the dreadful hot- and-cold sensations. At last he was patted with a fluffy towel and eased into a well-fitting night-shirt, the covers pulled back to tuck him into bed.  
  
What happened from there Frodo could scarcely remember. . .Elrond tucked him in, and almost at once he fell into a comfortable drowse, waking only occasionally and tended through another brief episode of vomiting by the Master of Imladris. He was vaguely aware of Elrond tending his shoulder, applying a soothing salve and checking the dressings. Once or twice he thought he heard low voices, as if his friends had come to enquire about him or perhaps some assistant were speaking with Elrond on some related or unrelated matter. . .but always he fell swiftly back into slumber, too tired to think on them.  
  
He awoke some time later, not knowing how long. Elrond remained at his bedside, exchanging the compress on the young hobbit's forehead for a fresh one. There was a faint scent of peppermint in the air.  
  
"Good afternoon, Frodo. How are you feeling?"  
  
"A. . .a little better, I think. . . ." Slowly he tried to sit up, to test the dizziness, but his curiousity was repaid even as Elrond caught him, gently pressing him to lie back down. "Still a bit. . .indisposed. . . ."  
  
"More than a bit, I should say." Tucking him back in, Elrond took something from a small, rather strange lamp on the bedside-table - like most things of elven design Frodo had seen thus far, it was at once fascinating and ordinary in appearance, a small silver dish with a lid. Yet as Elrond lifted the cover, pouring the contents into a porcelain cup, it became evident that this was some sort of heating-dish, almost like a miniature pot. Stirring the contents, Elrond resumed his seat at Frodo's side, offering him a half-spoonful. At once the young hobbit shook his head.  
  
"I don't want to be sick again. . . ."  
  
"Nor do I wish that for you." Elrond's grey eyes were free from criticism, calm and patient in their gaze. "But if you are sick at your stomach again, with having taken so little, it may be better for you if you have had something. . .and after so long with so little nourishment, we cannot wait until you feel especially eager to eat. You have endured more strain than most can face and still live."  
  
He offered the half-spoonful again.  
  
This time Frodo accepted, swallowing cautiously.  
  
Smooth, full. . .yet not overly rich, and he found himself opening his mouth for another taste. Elrond responded, administering another spoonful. . .and then another, continuing to feed his charge slow mouthfuls of the golden soup.  
  
Chicken. It was a velvety chicken soup, with bits of minced chicken and a dash of white pepper, made with chicken broth and butter and milk, even some cream. Much to his surprise, Frodo found he did *not* feel ill after finishing the cupful. . .only pleasantly comfortable, his aching stomach now settling down.  
  
"Is there anything else that you would like?"  
  
Frodo shook his head, curling up on his side. To know what to do, his heart insisted. The answers. . .how? and what then?  
  
But he remained silent, merely nestling into the comfortable array of blankets and sheets.  
  
Large, though still slender, hands reached into the nest and took his small ones. Frodo looked up - rather, across, as Elrond knelt by the bed, offering an eye-to-eye view.  
  
"Frodo. . .I do not claim to understand the ways of the Valar, or to know the full Music of Iluvatar. I do not know what will yet come to pass. But I know this: so long as you are in my house, which will be for some time yet, you shall have what comfort I can give, and this House shall be your haven, until it is time for the Ring-bearer to depart."  
  
He pressed Frodo's hands lightly between his.  
  
"I can give you little of light to take with you, apart from memories. Hold fast to them, for in the darkness ahead you will have great need of them. Memory is the gift of Eru Iluvatar to Firstborn and Second alike, to hobbits as much as any other race. I wish for you to take as many pleasant memories from the Last Homely House as you can, as important as what knowledge we can impart to you."  
  
At this, he smiled a little, the expression strangely reminiscent of twilight.  
  
"But for tonight, there will be no departure, nor on the morrow, and you are an honoured guest."  
  
~the end~ 


End file.
